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93

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#93. I’m allergic to cats and rabbits, and probably certain other furry critters.

So, the cat thing isn’t too bad. Mainly, it’s just another excuse to say that dogs are better, anyway. I can be around many cats without even a sniffle. Unless they scratch me, of course — then I’ll cry like a baby. Big poopy-headed cats, anyway.

But every once in a while, I’ll have a weird reaction. Like if I pet a cat, and then forget and rub my eyes. That’s always a good one; it’s happened two or three times now. Usually, it’ll happen at night — being around cats can make my eyes itch, anyway, and if it’s already late, then I’m just that much more likely to get in there with the ol’ fingers and *squeak squeak squeak* away at my eyeballs.

The problem comes when I wake up, of course. Whatever histamine cooties I get from the cat and jam into my eye have some sort of sleepover party, and when I get out of bed, my eye is overflowing. Literally, it gets all misshapen and bulgy and looks like it’s gonna fall right out of the socket. It’s friggin’ gross. Not to mention scary as hell, the first time it happened. I mean, have you ever woken up with part of your eye outside your eyelid, and drooping all down your cheek? I hope to hell not! After a few hours, it goes away, which is cool. And in the meantime, I can run around scaring children. Usually I tell them that this is what really happens when you eat your carrots. Or that my eye got hurt in a terrible tooth-brushing accident. It’s all about helping the parents, folks.

Anyway, then there’s rabbits. I didn’t actually know I was allergic to rabbits until I was working in a lab doing experiments with them.

(Yes, we used Little Bunny Foo Foo and Thumper for experiments. It happens. But there’s not as cute as you probably think. Little lop-eared poopin’ machines, that’s what they are, ya know. Eat ‘n’ poop and eat ‘n’ poop. It sounds like a pretty good life, actually, but it’s hardly endearing, now, is it?)

In any case, the first time I had to handle one of the critters, I found that I could barely breathe. These were long-haired bushy bunnies, and the air was thick with fur and dander. But mostly dander, I suspect. Damned dander… Anyway, I sat out for a while until I could get air into my lungs, and then carried on. But I always had problems down in ‘Bunny Central’ (or the ‘Rabbit Room’, whichever you like better). And I think they knew; they were out to get me, just because I injected them with stuff and sacrificed them in the name of science. I swear they fluffed up and spewed dander when I went in there, trying to choke me before I could get to them. ‘Defenseless bunnies’, indeed. Bah.

92

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#92. I generally lump magic, God, and the Powerball lottery together, and eye the lump warily.

Okay, this subject is a bit ‘heavy’ for this blog. I try to keep things light and breezy around here, but I can see where this one could get a little dicey. So I’ll do my best to explain without proselytizing. (Or prophylactizing, for that matter. Though I can make no promises as to the latter. You’ve been warned.)

Anyway, I suppose I’m a bit of a skeptic, generally speaking. I need quite a bit of proof before I believe something (or believe in something), and the things listed above just haven’t made the grade in my book. (Well, okay, of the three, I certainly believe that lotteries exist, just not that it’s realistic to participate in them. But of course they exist. They’re not like giraffes or platypi or anything nonsensical like that.)

That’s the beauty of being a skeptic, though. I can say that I really don’t believe in something — God, let’s say — and go merrily along my way. But I’m a skeptic because I don’t see sufficient proof, or a rational, coherent explanation, that suggests there must be a god or gods, and that he/she/they/it are of a certain persuasion or demeanor. Ah, but being an open-minded skeptic, I can always leave the door open for actual proof to sneak in. What kind of proof would be convincing in this case, I’m not sure. There are an awful lot of things that I can explain away by just deciding that I’ve lost my fucking mind. Not that I’ve needed to up to this point, you understand. But I reserve the right to do so, if that explanation makes more sense than the alternatives. And it’s not exactly unlikely, now, is it?

And so, I cast a critical eye on the things that I cannot explain, and haven’t personally experienced. Well, most things, anyway. Certainly, I’ve never seen a child being born, and I don’t quite have the wherewithal to tell you exactly how and why it happens. But I’m pretty sure that people are born, rather than dropped by storks or hatched from eggs or beamed down from Mars, so I’m willing to give in on this one and believe that childbirth is a real phenomenon. No, really, I just said I believed, okay? I don’t need to see it. I believe! I believe! La la la la la la la…

The things I mentioned originally are different beasts, though. Magic and god(s) were created to explain things that earlier people couldn’t. If religion is the opiate of the masses, then magic is the hemp of the counterculture. It’s romantic, it’s mysterious, it’s sexy. (No, really. Fairuza Balk in that horrible witch movie a few years ago? That was hot. And the chicks in Charmed and Buffy don’t exactly hurt my case, either.) But I’ve never seen anything that suggests that it’s real. Not for me, anyway. I’m all for relative truth — if it’s real for you, then more power to you. You go, Wiccan! I’m not one of those snarly sorts of skeptics who has to convince others; you go your way on this issue, and I’ll go mine. It’s all good.

God works pretty much the same way for me. Or doesn’t work, to be exact. First of all, basing your whole life around an old book seems just a bit daft. I don’t go around worshipping Beowulf. (Though I’m not so sure my high school English teacher didn’t. Weird woman, that one.) But I could probably get over that if the book weren’t filled with parables and innuendo, inconsistencies and flat-out contradictions. Not to mention the fact that if the Bible is the ‘word of God’, then what about all the changes and revisions that have been made over the years as monks and various holy men transcribed and ‘edited’ the text? Did the Lord change his mind? Was he correcting spelling errors? And which is right? The old text, or the new? What if we don’t have the right text, and the original has been lost forever? What then?

Plus — dammit, I really wasn’t gonna get started on this — there’s the matter of interpretation. Most people believe that the Bible’s not to be taken literally. And really, like I said, it can’t be. I’m sure the yahoos are going to come out of the woodwork in response to this one, but it’s: Just. Not. Possible. Besides the unlikelyhood of many of the events in the Bible happening, it contradicts itself more than once, and with little room for wiggling it’s way out of the inconsistency. Page so-and-so, John the Baptist is dead at Jesus’ baptism. Page such-and-such, he performs it. As Joseph may have said a few years beforehand, ‘What the fuck?‘

So, most people trest the Bible as partly — if not mostly — parable and example. Fine. I’ve got no immediate beef with these folks, provided they’re not holier-than-thou fire and brimstone types. Believe what you want, or need to believe, and I’ll do the same. My problem in this particular case is: if you know you’re not supposed to take some of what you read literally, then where do you draw the line? The burning bush — real or example? David and Goliath — history or life lesson? The ten commandments — divine will or just friendly suggestions? Who’s to say? Not me, and frankly, not you. You didn’t write the shit — we agree that it’s open to interpretation, and that the author ain’t talking. Basically, we can take anything we want from it. No wonder there are seven thousand different kinds of Christians running around. What’s next? A new one for everyone?

‘It’s personalized faith! Be the Church of You! Act now, before all the good stained glass is used up! Call today, and get your face on a cross figure. Limited time only.‘

All right, that’s probably enough of that, and then some. You get the idea, and I’m not here to convince anyone. Like I said, believe what you want. At least there’s a code of ethics and conduct involved, and for my money, that’s the real payoff. It doesn’t really matter where you get it from, just that you get it and you apply it. Don’t kill people or steal from them or be mean unless you really have to. Those are the basics, and you can get them from any holy text of any major religion on the planet, not to mention most of the wacko cults. It’s pretty basic stuff, after all. Hell, you can get it out of Blue’s Clues, if you watch a couple of episodes. All hail the Church of Blue!

So, anyway, what’s left? Oh, the lottery. Yeah, pretty much everybody under the age of blue hair-ness knows that these things are a waste of time. You have a better chance of Ben or JLo — whichever’s appropriate for your particular preferences — dropping the other to marry you than you have of ever seeing more than a free scratch ticket from any of the lotteries out there. They’re rigged to make money, and again, thank the heavens that they do. That money goes toward state projects like roads and schools and Senator kickbacks, so hurrah for lotteries. If you play them now, don’t listen to me — keep pumping that money in there. You’re paying for my smooth ride downtown, baby. Keep it up. Hell, buy an extra one, ’cause I’m not gonna play. You can have my ticket, too.

Well, that’s about all I have to say on this subject, I guess. I suppose — given my own outlook — that I’d advise the rest of you to adopt a critical eye yourselves. Question what you’re told; look for proof, or at least reason behind what’s laid down before you. You might be surprised how few things really make any damned sense at all. On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t tell you that. For one thing, it’s a tad hypocritical, since I’ve already stated that I think you should believe whatever the hell you want to believe. So why stop believing them and doubting your various faiths, just because I say so? Plus, I’m not sure a whole world full of people who scoff at ‘because I said so‘ would really work out very well. We’d probably just end up arguing all the time, and being mean to each other without a good reason. We might even start stealing each other’s shit, out of spite, and even killing each other. And that’s just wrong, no matter where you get your beliefs from. Hell, the back of a cereal box could get you that far.

91

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#91. I am an only child. (Explains a lot, doesn’t it?)

Yes, folks, there’s nothing like a complete lack of companionship with your peers during the first few formative years of life to permanently skew your outlook on yourself, the world, and everything around you. The questionable social skills, the extreme skepticism and cynical bent, that creepy awkward feeling of not quite beloning in your own skin, the constantly running internal dialogue, the mistrust of authority figures, and an unhealthy fear of disappointing yourself and others — it’s all here. Really, I’d recommend it to anyone. Anyone with a strong stomach and the sense of humor to pull it off, that is. Nobody likes an antisocial hermit bitch or a clingy, whiny doormat, you know. It’s a very fine line to walk.

But on most days, I think I manage to pull it off. Sometimes, people even tell me that I don’t seem like an only child.

Which I’m not quite sure how to take, frankly — what do you say to someone who’s just questioned something that’s so basic to who you are? ‘Funny, you don’t act like you’re black.‘ ‘Gee, are you sure you’re a woman?‘ ‘German, my ass. You ain’t no German.‘ I think people (generally) mean the comment as a compliment (the only child one; not necessarily the other examples), but it’s a backhanded, bitch-slap compliment at best, isn’t it? Really, it’s saying this:

‘Hey, I think only children are whiny, selfish, antisocial bastards. But I never thought of you that way. Until now, of course. Now I’ll keep my eye on you, and notice all the weird crap that I let you slide on, because I assumed you had siblings. So you better keep your fucking nose clean. Freakbag.‘

Or maybe that’s just my cynical side showing again. Whatever. Anyway, I’m glad I’m an only child. I didn’t have to deal with all the ‘he said, she said‘ sibling crap that a lot of people go through. Nobody ever snuck their hand onto ‘my side’ of the car seat, or took the Pop-Tart that Mom promised to me, or peed in my sippy cup out of spite.

(Of course, I’ve had to learn to deal with all of things now that I’m married. Well, okay, not all of them, of course. We always have plenty of Pop-Tarts.)

And I like to think that I didn’t end up ‘spoiled’, either, despite my grandparents’ best efforts. Frankly, I think it’s just the opposite, if anything. I hated people paying attention to me, or fawning over me in any way. I still do. (Okay, this blog and anything else I write or things that I say to try and be funny notwithstanding. These are complicated rules, I admit, but that’s just how it is. Deal.) I tell very few people about my birthday, for instance, lest I have to deal with presents and fuss and bother that I feel I don’t deserve. (Yes, I’m a tragic little waif when you get right down to it. Boo fuckin’ hoo.)

But in ‘normal’ situations — work, home life, parties, and the like — I think I cope pretty well. Almost no one can see that I don’t know what to do with my hands, or that I’d rather be sitting in a corner instead of standing around talking to a half dozen people at once, or that I’m really thinking about baseball. Or, lately, how I can turn the wretched experience into something worth blogging about. Most people who don’t know me well just think I’m a quiet, polite sort — I often remind older ladies of their sons and nephews. Others who know me a little better probably see me as a cutup, always cracking jokes and trying to make them giggle, until strangers come around and I mysteriously shut my piehole. It’s the rare person indeed who sees past all that to whatever’s underneath, covered in cobwebs and dust and pickle juice (really, I don’t know how the hell that got there). Maybe only my wife sees it, and that’s just peachy with me. (Though it probably scares the bejeesus out of her. Sorry, hon — it did say ‘in sickness and in health; for better or for worse‘. And you can’t get much worsely sicker than this.)

But perhaps I’m not fooling anyone. Maybe those first few years alone have left me unable to accurately read people, and they all know who I really am. Again, that’s just fine — as long as they don’t let on, or start hugging me or singing ‘Happy Birthday‘ or ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow‘. (Which, if they really know, they’re overwhelmingly unlikely to do. Run a car over me, perhaps. Sing to me? No. Not likely.)

In any case, I think I’ve ‘made it’. I have a wonderful, beautiful wife who puts up with my near-constant occasional meanderings and phobias, I’ve met a few people who agreed to drop their lawsuits friends along the way, and I am everyday reliving the horrors of survived my awkward years growing up. So I’d say that I’ve been quite successful as an only child, no matter what you may think of them. And after it all, I wouldn’t change a thing.

(At least, that’s what the voices tell me I should think. And I can’t argue with them. When they get mad, they sing to me. Lousy bastard voices. Who invited them, anyway?)

90

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#90. I was one of ESPN’s 3Play contest winners.

For those of you who missed the series of contests a couple of summers ago, they worked like this:

At some point in the day, you had to log in to ESPN’s site and click on the ‘3Play’ button. You’d then be assigned three sports figures — individuals, teams, tennis doubles partners, whatever — for the next day. Each ‘figure’ would be able to score points for you in a variety of ways; I think there were three per figure. So a baseball player might score by getting runs, home runs and walks, or RBI, walks and hits. No two contestants would have exactly the same combination of figures and scoring chances. So essentially, it was a lottery, where you neither picked your own numbers, nor chose exactly which ticket type you wanted to scratch off. Pretty limiting, now that I think about it.

But damn it all if I didn’t just win the thing one day! (In other words, limiting, schimiting.) I don’t remember exactly who my figures were that day — I do recall that I had Bobby Higginson of the Detroit Tigers (an unlikely hero, but he had two home runs that day, which was huge) and the Portugese national soccer team. (Sorry, Euro types — I meant ‘football squad‘.) The third member of my little pack escapes me, but he/she/it/they must have kicked ass, too, because collectively, they outkicked all the other ass-kickers in the whole game. Yay!

And what did I win for my unparalleled prowess at logging in and clicking on a link? Why, cold hard cash, of course! Obviously. See, if I spend oodles of hours and six months of haggling, bargaining, worrying and projecting to beat nine other actual people in an ESPN fantasy league, then I deserve a T-shirt for my troubles. But, if I follow a bookmark to their site and click a link — just once! — then I obviously merit five figures in legal tender for my troubles. Well, duh.

Still, who’s to argue? That’s money we’re talking about, folks. And even after Uncle Sam got his greedy paws on half of it, and we squirrelled some away for a rainy day, we were still able to upgrade our sorry excuses for a living room couch and television. Which rocked, because both pieces really needed upgrading. One was an old lady hand-me-down, and the other was a somewhat-used discounted floor model missing some of its parts. One developed annoying wavy lines, and the other sported mysterious gray blotches. Both were on their last legs, and so my wife and I put our winnings to good use in getting the hell rid of them and finding suitable replacements.

The contest ran for the whole summer, if I remember correctly. There were mechanisms for winners to earn bonuses and for money to accumulate — I think a couple of people won upwards of thirty grand or so, though my prize was nowhere near that. Still, it was free dough, and much appreciated. The contest is long gone, but we’ve still got our nifty couches and TV. And now that we own a house, and all of the monetary requirements that entails, we’ll probably have to keep our 3Play stuff until it gets blotchy and wavy and crappily old, too. Unless we can win another contest before that, that is. Anybody want to pay me for clicking on something? Really, I’ve proven my ability; I can do it again. Just give me a chance — and a shot at big money — and I’m there, dude. Just say the word.

89

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#89. My favorite meal is the Dinner of Champions.

Or as I like to call it, ‘Wings and nachos and beer, oh my!‘

There’s really not much else to say about it, I suppose. The tradition started in grad school, when one particular friend and I always seemed to be out on a Tuesday or Thursday night drinking, and always seemed to have forgotten to eat dinner before hitting the town. And what were we gonna do? Eat salads? I laugh at your salads. Ha! Ha ha!

No, you just don’t eat salads with cheap beer. It just doesn’t happen. And cheap beer was all we were gonna be drinking, so the libation sort of drove the menu on those nights. The first few times, we ordered various items — potato skins made an appearance, we may have had fried cheese, and I think I remember the occasional jalepeno popper. But the staples were mile-high nachos and Buffalo chicken wings. Most every bar had ’em, and they’re hard to really screw up.

Oh, some were better than others, of course. At the time, CJ Barney’s (now defunct after one too many under-age drinking busts) over by the Pitt campus had the best nachos, and Mitchell’s, close to my apartment, took the prize for wings. But we didn’t care. We couldn’t afford to be too picky, so we ate whereever the beer was cheap that night, or where our friends were meeting us later.

And now, many years later, the Dinner of Champions is alive and well. I don’t have it as often these days, but there are times that I can talk my wife and/or a couple of friends into stepping into that hedonistic paradise and letting loose for a while. Football games are a good incentive; basketball tournaments work pretty well, too. But when you have the Dinner of Champions in front of you, it’s not about the sports, or whatever occasion has brought you to this time and place. Before you is the food of kings! Nectar of the gods! Your duty is but to eat and drink and eat some more. You may feel the effects later — and at my age, you certainly will — but for a few all-too-brief moments, you can be twenty-two again, munching and slopping and slurping with abandon. Just like the old days. And like a true Champion. Yawp!